Tourist Trap
by Gemenied
Summary: It's a warm and sunny day in London. - mindless fluff


**Title**: Tourist Trap

**Rating**: K (mindless fluff)

**Disclaimer**: I don't own anything. Even the basic idea isn't mine.

**Summary**: It's a warm and sunny day in London.

**A/N**: Joodiff said the eternal words and I followed. Ooops. Many, many thanks to ShadowSamurai83 for the beta (only one completely innocent in this). No Strada was involved.

Enjoy.

* * *

**Tourist Trap**

On principle, Boyd adheres to the worldwide syndrome of proving to be really local by never going to the sights every tourist simply has to see. There's a large part of misogyny in his attitude, but also a sense of utter pointlessness. He sees a lot more than he wants to see on the job, which is extremely stressful and demanding. The last thing he needs in his rare moments of freedom is to squeeze himself between the crowds.

Over the years Boyd has come to the realization that he doesn't particularly like crowds, unless _he_ chooses to join them. Footie is fine, for there's a common purpose, but sightseeing is far off his list.

Grace is, naturally, the complete opposite of him in this regard. Sure, she doesn't need to rush into every star-studded play opening, or she doesn't cue for hours to get onto the Eye, but there are certain tourist traps she visits regularly.

It's something Boyd doesn't really understand and their discussions on this topic usually lead to a dead end, because he doesn't see the appeal on principle and she can't convince him. It goes the other way around as well, but Boyd can be a bit of an arsehole when he wants to be, and when he gets into the mood, he reminds her of the 'being a stranger in town'-aspect of visiting sights.

Often he receives no more than a shrug and a smile, but there are times when he can see how it stings. She's never elaborated, but there's something ambivalent about her and her origins. Wildly positive in some parts and oddly quiet about it otherwise.

It bothers him at times, for it shows just how long the road for them still is, but today he's got little time for it.

There's something about Grace Foley that is quite indescribable and quite inexplicable, but it is something that turns Peter Boyd into a complacent, amenable man. More than that, it turns on every level of consideration and caring he's capable of. Over the last months this has led to some spectacular bouts of uncharacteristic behaviour, just like the one he's offering now.

Admittedly, it's a beautiful day. There are blue skies and wispy clouds, the sun is shining and the temperatures surprisingly high. It's sunglasses weather and the city is full to burst with tourists. Grace doesn't mind, for Grace has gotten it into her head to go and join the crowds.

She likes this place in particular, Boyd knows, though he can't quite see the appeal. It's original purpose, romanticized by a musical and a film, is long gone. All there is now, are crowds, cheap market stalls selling useless crap for extortionate prices, and street artists of medium ability.

It's all loud and raucous and a tad bit too much, especially the groups of obnoxious teenagers of all languages who block the way, playing around on their smart phones and generally make a nuisance of themselves in the face of one tense Met Super on an unwanted day out.

It's shortly after lunch - his fault admittedly that they didn't get out of the house earlier, but he'll easily plead the fifth, because Grace in the morning with the sun shining onto her sleepy face...well, that pushes every known and unknown button and it was 11 before they even left the bed - and the crowds are massive. Thank God they didn't have to use the nearby tube station for that would have driven him to an explosion of temper - he hates that old-fashioned thing with a passion.

Grace is in her element, winding through the throngs of people with ease and a wide smile. This also pushes a lot of Boyd's buttons, so he lets her do so, as long as she keeps a firm hold onto his hand. She doesn't say where she is actually heading, but it looks like it doesn't matter to her.

Accepting this, the lack of purpose in their outing - lunch is only a somewhat vague target - grates on Boyd's nerves, but he's learned that if he allows Grace to live out her little eccentricities he'll be handsomely rewarded. Even if he doesn't necessarily enjoy the food that comes along. However, there was homemade sheperd's pie and beer last night, so if today is one of those 'You just have to try that, Peter. It is quite good'-days, he'll just have to grin and bear it. Though if it is some of that vegan tofu-crap, he can't guarantee for anything.

It is another one of those things about Grace that he can't fathom. Compared to her he feels downright xenophobic, which doesn't gel with his self-appointed 'man of the world'-image, but some of the things she digs up are...well... Just the memory of last Sunday's flea market makes him shudder.

Suddenly, in the middle of the "Apple Market"-row, she stops. Around them a group of French teenagers comes to a halt, their blabbering uninterrupted, though their faces show all the contempt young people can express towards elders who stop their progress. Boyd glares back for good measure and luckily it works well enough to quicken their steps.

They are just in the shadow of the roof, the sun still on their legs and it is warm and actually quite comfortable. He pulls the already slipped sunglasses off and raises an eyebrow. "What?"

She smirks in reply. "I wonder what bothers you more, the masses here or the unsolved question of which obscure restaurant I want you to try."

"Give me strength!" he replies with a little more vehemence than is strictly necessary.

"Don't I always?"

"Grace!" he whines, not really in the mood to endure her teasing, especially when she's hidden her eyes behind sunglasses and he can't gauge with absolute certainty just how much teasing is involved. Over the last months they have carefully mapped out a mode of romantic co -existence, which sounds a lot more clinical than it actually was.

He knows her moods, has learned when and why to steer clear and suffered the repercussions when he erred. This is as close to perfect as her mood can get - apart from the privacy of his or her bedroom, or every other room when the mood takes her - in public.

She laughs, carefree and relaxed. She looks healthy and happy and that pushes every imaginable button in him too. Boyd is actually a far cry from the shouty, inconsiderate bull he portrays in the professional and public realm. It's a facade that Grace cuts through easily with her knowing smiles, and her teasing smiles and her amused smiles, but most of all with those carefree ones for which Boyd gladly makes a fool of himself.

Her hands come to rest on his chest, and in the quick moment he looks down; they appear so incredibly small and fragile against the breadth of his body. She seems to shrink physically against his bulk, but it's no more than an optical illusion.

He knows that. She knows that too.

But she plays on this, plays him. Good-naturedly and gently. Sometimes, he think there isn't a mean bone in her body, which doesn't do her justice, but it awes him. Grace has the patience of a saint, when she wants to.

It doesn't matter today, though, when it is warm and sunny and she's healthy and constantly holding onto him. Even if it is in the middle of a tourist trap. Or maybe because of it.

"So, where do you want to go?" he asks, more mellow than before.

"I'm good where I am."

"Grace, we are in Covent Garden with thousands of people crowding us. The music is crap and too damn loud, the air stinks and I won't guarantee that I'm not murdering one of those teenage bastards that are stumbling into me without looking where they are going. That doesn't qualify as good!"

"Misanthrope," she counters, the smirk still firmly in place.

"Oh, don't throw those damn foreign terms around, just because you know them."

"Oh, don't be such a Scrooge, just because you can."

It's always the same with them, measure for measure, in any way. One word gives the other, and if they hadn't already come to an understanding, he might bang his head against the wall in pure frustration. Grace loves those games, bandying with words, and it drives him up the wall. She can talk him drunk without ever really saying anything.

It's...oddly enough a little like the place they are in. Winding, moving, changing and yet staying the same. Endless circles both.

"Where are we going?" Boyd asks again.

Grace shrugs and smiles. "There is this gorgeous vegan lunch kitchen in Neal's Yard."

He groans reflexively, deepening her smile. "Can't we do Fish and Chips? Take-away, even? Down by the river, or something?"

"Anything that had eyes once?"

Rolling his eyes, Boyd nods. "Something like that, yeah."

There are several dozen of snarky replies rushing in her mind and he can see and hear each and every one of them, but maybe because of the sunshine or the fact that they didn't get out of bed before 11 - and that on a week day, Grace is almost as mellow as he is.

Her hands, still on his chest, stroke him gently through the material of his clothes and suddenly it is a sharply focussed sensation. The blindingly blue sky, enhanced by bright sunshine, both mirrored in her sunglasses are the backdrop for her smile and her hands on him.

She reaches up, probably goes on tiptoes for a moment, which is so ridiculously cute that Boyd - glad that nobody except her will realize it - basically melts. Inside. In that place only she knows.

The good thing is that the Covent Garden plaza is so packed with people that nobody even takes notice. Who cares about some couple snogging in public?

There's sunshine in London.

Nobody does.

* * *

Thank you for reading. Comments would be greatly appreciated.


End file.
